Together like glue
by DannyPhantomOfTheAvatar
Summary: Johnlock. All stories are Johnlock. There will be M rated material in later chapters. Each chapter is different. They love eachother, once you let that settle into your heart, then you will know peace.
1. John's Out of Town

Sherlock doesn't Know How to Cope with John Out of Town

It is no way as if he is dependent on him. There are days he thrives in the absence of his best colleague he's ever had. Hell, there are times John is the one in need. They balance each other's dependency on one another. Without Sherlock, John would find his psychosamatic limp again. Without John, Sherlock would lose what little sociability he's gained.

A balance.

But John had an offer. If teaching underprivaledged children about the purpose of proper health gave him a good paycheck, who's to say it's not worth it? Well, that person would be Sherlock.

He didn't know though. Once that man of a greying head of hair left with an old duffel case and army boots, he'd be unplugged. Like a machine. The atmosphere of the flat grew a little colder and duller this time. Just with Sherlock knowing he's alone for the longest time he's been alone.

Mrs. Hudson? Good company, not a good companion. Lestrade? Good at poking fun at, not good at poking fun with. And Molly? ...Just not good. Though they all held a place in his funny, hating, little heart, none of them were as accepting as his good friend John.

. . .

Days, maybe weeks pass. Normal. Sherlock's solved an interesting case with a so-called vampire and weasel. He's only talked to John ten times without him actually being there.

Three times he thought John was the coat racket in the corner of his eye. He's noted to move the thing to a more visual place. One he waited six hours waiting for John to pass him a file.

Another note: 'May need to text John'

. . .

Another week gone by.

Sherlock texted John. _Meet me at St. Ave in thirty. _John replied an hour later. _I'm in another Country, Sherlock. _

He checks his phone at the crime scene, yellow tape strung around the whole street. He feels foolish, like his brain has become acustom to a pattern. And it has. He doesn't reply.

John does. _You still alive? Hopefully... _

Sherlock finishes the case. Then later texts, _Never been more so. _And suddenly eating at all doesn't seem sufficient. Neither does sleep.

. . .

Two more productive months pass.

Sherlock recounts the seconds until John is to return. But neither he nor John knows. Only the estimate year and a half quelches the question.

The humorously named genius burns a set of chemicals, setting the dining table on fire. Police come and investigate. Lestrade helps Sherlock hide the fact he has illegal chemicals in the bathroom cabinets. "Thanks Greggory." Close to Greg at least.

Greg also notes at the catastrophy that is Sherlock's flat. Newspapers, book pages, file crumples, beakers, and a well hidden skeleton under women's clothes. "For a case!" He states. Again, Lestrade keeps it away from others.

Sherlock knows he needs to speak with John. Before, John would stop him before things got this bad. He needed the scorning, and saying no to Mrs. Hudson was far too easy. He needed the big bad armyman with the bad shoulder.

. . .

However many more weeks pass. Sherlock's lost count.

Another text to John. _I've bought milk. _He smiles as he typed it. It was always the milk. Either he forgot to buy it, or his experiments tainted it, or something. Always something. So John must be proud.

His reply. _And I've just saved a four year olds life. _

The detective double takes. What does it mean? Was it supposed to sound as degrading as it did? He types again. _I bet the four year old wishes he had milk now. _Again, he smiles at his own text. And waits.

_Did you just attempt to make a joke? And you thought girlfriends weren't your area. _

Sherlock laughs petily at his phone. A tear in the corner of his left eye. Left eye meant pain, right? Oh, how badly he wishes he were laughing with John face to face. Not screen to screen.

Not to self: set up video chat

. . .

fifteen days. Three cases. two bottles of wine. One acid trip later.

The acid trip purely for medicinal reasonings. Medicinal. Reasonings.

If there was fat on Sherlock before, it was gone now. Only lean muscle lined his arms, legs, torso. Cheeks sunk in a bit, but nothing out of ordinary. Sherlock has forgotten about John. He's on a new track. On learning.

The whole floor of 221B is covered in fingerpaints and old newspaper clippings. Against the hard, dark wood floors there are splatters of the blues, yellows, reds, light greens, and purposefully neon paint. The clippings have been smudged and touched so many times, they are barely readable. Mrs. Hudson fainted once while walking in.

Sherlock's phone begins buzzing on the other side of the room, on the window sill. He stands up vigantly, white button-up stained with love, pants rolled up, shoe-less. Steps in everything in his path and answers it. Though, talking on the phone isn't his thing.

Strange, unlabeled numbers, are. "Ceci est Sherlock parle." French. (This is Sherlock speaking) John undeniable grunting of confusion fills the other line. Sherlock smiles. "You said, Sherlock, correct? Oh god, what am I saying? Sherlock, I told you I don't speak French well."

"Puis apprendre a, stupide." (Then learn to, stupid) He's still smiling. But it's forced now. He happily forgot about John. Or was other wise occupying his mind to other things. If you could hear someone pearce their lips, this would be the time. "I don't need a translator to tell me you called me stupid. Just listen, I'm going to help a village near where I am. So, my cell will be out of service. If you need to contact me, use email."

Sherlock opens his mouth for another retaliate or 'represailles' but there was a deafening click in his ear. John's hung up.

. . .

Two Days.

Mycroft insisted Sherlock have a specialist look at him. Big brother gets worried. As always. But worry and stalking is two different things. And Mycroft was no ordinary big brother.

Sherlock sat for a whole day in a white room while a man in a white suit ask him very human, very elementary questions. "Why do you think your IQ is higher than your social score?" Answer, 'Because people are boring'. "How would you describe your brain?" Answer, 'Mind palace'. There was also a failed urine test in the mix. But it was tedious and Sherlock asked nicely for Mycroft to LAY OFF.

. . .

Months

The flat has been fumagated. And this time, Sherlock asked for it. When he smelled gas in the air, his mind immediately jumped to an attempted murder and crawled through the vents until he found an old testube lodged in a vent opening. It needed the cleaning.

Mrs. Hudson roomed with one of her good neighbors and Sherlock spent the week out of the flat walking. Nearly nonstop except for the time he passed out in the diner and a stripper took him into her studio. He slept on a breast shaped bed for twelve hours before waking up and leaving with no goodbye. She was nice, odd, but nice.

. . .

Days. The flat was too clean.

He tried dirtying it up again, but Mrs. Hudson put her foot down. She kept a close eye on Sherlock once she knew how Sherlock was without a friend around. Down right looney if anything else. He barricaded himself under the burned dining table to test a theory on claustrophobia. No results found except the smell of burnt wood.

He hasn't talked at all since the stripper.

. . .

A month.

Sherlock has forgotten who John Hamish Watson is. And he's picked up on German. This time, when he gets an unnamed call, he can only pronounce the German pronunciation of the vowels into the phone. John still knows it's Sherlock. It's the voice, very unmistakable. "I will be back soon. I am leaving the village and once I get back into town, I will be on a train. Three days time." He says. And it takes the other man to back track. To process the words from English to German.

But the question of, 'Who's talking to me?', still remains.

He begins writing a handbook titled, 'The Brit' and proceeds to write a detailed (and completely German) deduction on the man's voice he heard from the phone. Making the mark that the man's voice was, 'trocknen' (dry), 'dieser bereich' (of this area), and 'mannlich' (male). Not to mention that the voice was one hundred percent familiar.

. . .

One day.

Sherlock snapped out of it the second he got the call. It was a nurse from a town not far from where John said he was at.

John was being careflown to London. He was shot. Sherlock's number was the first one on his cell. (Sherlock's number was above Harry's?)

It was painful. To remember you just spend nearly six months of your life going mad. To know the person you went mad for was in critical condition. To have to wait in the lobby until that exact man made it to Bart's. To listen to crappy elevator music the whole damn time.

Until the helicopter loudly landed on it's pad. Until John's body was wheeled quickly down the hall with women and men in matching uniforms pumping and squeezing things into his body. Until the stomping hours of life and dead ended.

Then the painful slid into mournful. And the overnight surgery was over, and Sherlock was aware he spent the entire night staring at some old lady's forgotten purse in a lobby chair.

. . .

Hours.

"I can see him now. Let me see him." The nurse at the receptionist desk looked at him over her glasses. She's put up with his odd noises and self talking alot in the past, even more so throughout last night.

"Only family. No friends aloud." Her dark shaded lipstick stuck to her teeth and Sherlock shuddered. He hated her so. "I apologize for your previous misinformation Misses..." He glances at her nametag, "Aplebottom. But John and I are infact, family." A faux grin. Nothing right now except a healthy John could make him smile for real.

"Do you have papers or a confirmed statement to prove this, Mister Holmes?" A sucking in of breath through the nose.

Sherlock hissed at her, provenly scarier than it sounds. And sat back down, reeling his rage and hiding his body in his coat, legs drawn up as well.

. . .

Minutes pass. And the receptionist leaves as another takes her spot. Sherlock sneaks into the halls.

He's seen Harry walk passed him through here, carrying flowers in a black vase. Then he comes to the ICU labeled section. Squirms his way past more doctors, then sees the black flower filled vase in the one of the open rooms. He goes in cautiously, and yes, no nurses or doctors inside.

Just Harry with her hand slipped in his.

"Hey." Possibly the first, human to human and English spoken contact he's done in awhile. Harry smiles sleepily and quietly unhooks herself and stands. "Mm, hey Sherlock. Go ahead and take place. He's supposed to wake up soon, I need to wash up." She looks like John in the oddest ways. Like her facial expressions, and gestures.

She leaves. He sits in her seat and just stares for the longest time. At John. A cleaned, sewn up shot wound in the near center of his stomach. Only the white patch to say he was shot there. They had him lying on the bed, shirtless, blanketless, possibly freezing if he weren't so drugged. Sherlock fixed that, lightly laying the cold blanket on his torso.

The touch of the cover made John twitch. Sherlock held his breath, hoping not to have hurt him. But John's face upturns into a smile. "God, John, don't ever leave me again." He whispers, mostly out of pure joy that John's actually here and not elsewhere. No more coat rack.

"We all make mistakes." Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin, expecting nothing of that, not John's deep voice scrapping out of his throat. He was awake the whole time, Sherlock sees, even when Harry was by his side. "You can only have so many bullets go through you before you're done for." Sherlock says with a shake. It's wierd.

John's eyes open. He's in pain, but he's alive. "The bullet was the highlight of the trip." His eyes search for Sherlock, and when they connect, both are aware of how Sherlock's hand wriggled its way into John's. "That boring, then?" Sherlock tries a smile, one that is easier to put on now.

His flatmate shakes his head, hand clasping down on Sherlock's with what little strength it can manage. "No, it wasn't boring. It was horrible." He licks his lips.

They exchange another look. Then John sweeps in another breath, "There were nights I lay awake worrying you got into the drugs, blown yourself up again, got killed... Other nights there was the nightmares. Nine times out of ten I'd call the children Sherlock or treat them as you." A small smile, "You're a bugger, Sherlock. You've completely taken over my life, my thoughts." It was said.

Sherlock let go of his hand, "I'm sorry it impeded your work so badly." He looks away. But John's hand squeezes Sherlock's once more, "But I am happy for it. Without you, I'd still have my hand jitters, my leg would still be wonky, I'd have the other nightmares about the war... I'm happy to run my mind on you."

The genius stills. His hand freezes, and his eyes are fixed on John's blue and discoloured lips. Partly because they just said the most beautiful thing he's heard. Partly because...

"My mind is happy with you on it as well." A tear slips down a porceiline cheek. A tall Englishman lifts and looms over a shorter, stouter Englishman. Their eyes entangle together, and Sherlock leans in just enough for their lips to do the same. Neither knew if it was their intention, but neither disagreed.

Sherlock broke away with parted lips, his hand coming to stroke down the other's longed greying hair, and John's Iv's pricked hand stroked up Sherlock's upperarm.

"You balance me." The corners of Sherlock's mouth lift up and are met by stray tears that continue to gravify off his his chin and onto the blanket beneath. John lets out his wavering voice.

"No, I love you."


	2. Hamish has Questions

Hamish Has Questions

It was a choice neither men knew they'd take on. It began with a case. A deadend suicide case of a young woman. But it ended with a forgotten baby and no mother or father. Lestrade's orders were to call the orphanage, yet John found himself screaming out, "Wait, no! Let me find him a home."

Neither knew. Nobody knew. That just a few horrible months with a lost child would bring them so close together. That adoption papers would be signed under both the Watson 'and' Holmes name. That the little, forgotten baby would be soon named 'Hamish Harriet Watson'. It was a surprise even to the all-knowing genius.

In reality, it was a bigger surprise to the all-knowing genius, Sherlock Holmes. That he'd feel this 'butterflies in the stomache' emotion once he saw his colleague coo'ing along with the bumbling infant. He fell to his knees once. They were in the flat waiting for the crib to arrive. John laid Hamish on the couch and crouched infront of him on the ground. He began mouthing and humming into Hamish's stomach and sides, tickling and making the baby's giggles fill the room. Sherlock just fell to his knees in the sudden rush of pleasant chemicals to the brain.

Some would call it 'love at delayed sight'.

. . .

Hamish is a four month old

The crying baby fell asleep on the stack of blankets strung out on the floor. John was just standing infront of him, waiting for the small human to wake up and wail for food again, or be needing a diaper change. He liked the work.

Sherlock was on the couch, watching John watch Hamish. He has mentally come to terms with this relationship thing working out. In his mind, they are already married. But in reality they are still flatmates. "We should adopt another." Sherlock whispers, careful not to wake Hamish.

John's head tilts, did he not hear? "Pardon me, Sherlock?" He's still smiling out of his wits. "Once this one is a few years old. Just so he'll have someone." Maybe feelings were clouded by logic sometimes, and even though the feeling was there, it wasn't said right. "You mean 'we' as in both our names or..." John swallows the smile, his face a little more intense.

"The proper wording would be an 'and'. John, 'and yes' I think the next shall have both our names with the benefit of two loving," He sighs, "Parents." This was one way of exclaiming your love to someone. John guesses anyway, taking the statement quite easily. Knowing Sherlock, you never should expect anything.

"Lets see how this pans out, this is good, this is overly great." That grin peeks through again. Sherlock thinks: 'Yes, this relationship thing will work out fine.'

. . .

Hamish is a year old.

The two men have slipped into domestic harder than before. Walking side by side turned into holding hands. Saying, "I'm leaving for a bit, see you later." turned into, "Be good with Hamish while I go out. Love you two." and solving cases turned into dates. The only thing they haven't done yet is consumate this deal with sex. Just recently they celebrated Hamish's estimated first birthday with a very liplocked kiss.

It was only a matter of time before someone brought up the situation. Like Lestrade.

"I saw you two on the streets yesterday holding hands. Was it another handcuff scenario?" The three of them were hovering over a murder victims severed head. The couple immediately bumped heads and looked up at Greg widely. Sherlock gloved his hand as he spoke, "No, we were holding hands." He tested the words and felt them come out questioning.

Lestrade rocked his jaw, "Ah. I see. So, you two... Hold hands now?" John was aware of Sherlock's hand looming to his, "Very much so." Everyone watched as Sherlock pulled a line of beads from the head's mouth. "And I suspect the clue I have here is much more surprising than one of your detective's choices." The beads suspend in the middle of the three. Greg smiles, "Right."

They bag the evidence, and before anyone gets a chance to flee the scene, Greg stops Sherlock and John. "Happy for you." And it gives John the best grin/giggle the rest of the evening.

. . .

Hamish is a year and a half. And cannot stop running and falling everywhere.

He mumbled about "stupid" when you want him to say "Papa". (Sherlock's contribution) And knows how to shake the table back and forth very forcefully during supposed breakfast or dinnertime. The parents put up with it. And have decided on something.

To never 'not' show their love for one another. Kisses, hugs, words. If something is hidden, then how should they expect Hamish to grow up knowing he has parents who love not just him but one another as well. They make a point, however, to exclude him from the more bedroom behavior. (although bedroom is still a term needing discussing)

They sit at the table with the little one in a lended highchair. "Hamish! Say Papa!" Sherlock tries again, doing a splendid job at dumbing things down for his son. John watches closely. Then Hamish smiles out, "Stupid." And Sherlock smiles too, he always does. At first, he felt bad, but now it's priceless to see a young child call two adults stupid. John gets his attention, "No, no. Pa- Pa! P-a-p-a." Spelling it out, slowing it down.

The child kicks his legs frustratedly for a second before speaking, "Mumma!"

The light air is a little heavier as Sherlock and John exchange a look. They never really thought about that aspect. Okay, push through. Just push. "Mumma? Who's mumma?" John asks. Hamish points to Sherlock. The light air returns as Sherlock chuckles a low, deep laugh.

John asks again, "Then who am I?" The dark haird, fair skinned, chubby baby boy scanned his hands over the table top, responding in a lisped, high voice. "Papa!" And cheers spill from all corners as if it were a full room. Hamish kicks his feet especially hard from the men's encouragement. Sherlock quiets down, "He's obviously wrong, John. We all know I'm the dominant one."

"Oh? You'll have to prove that sometime." Was it an invite? Sherlock hoped so, god, he prayed so. "I will." With vocals lower and daunted.

. . .

Hamish is three. (a year and a half later)

And Sherlock never properly payed John his promise. But there were nights. Fuck, there were some damn good nights.

When a friend (Molly, Hudson, Greg, Mycroft, etc) would take Hamish for a few hours. When the lights dimmed and the rain would pitter lightly outside. Sherlock expressed his need to show John just how 'not virgin' he was. Though, in light of it all, he had no experience. Just data.

"Lets play the tickle game." The genius' head crooked in the neck of John's.

"The one we play with Hamish?" Good question, though the answer was supposed to be, 'yes'. Sherlock glides his hand up John's pyjama covered thigh, over his hip and under his sweater. "Indeed, but instead of telling me to stop you'll say keep going. And, I 'won't' be tickling you." John's throat got dry quick, and his next words never came out. The warm slender fingers of Sherlock were ringing around his nipples. A thought came into his head then: 'When did that ever feel this good?'

The genius snickers, shifting a little more ontop of John, switching hands to run the other through the thick of John's hair. This was sort of like petting a dog, more sexual, but still like petting. "You know what? We only have thirty minutes, so if we're doing this, we're doing it." John's words were the product of waiting and waiting. "Good. Now hands up because that tacky sweater's coming off." Sherlock was already ripping it away, letting his own robe gather with it on the ground.

It took longer for them to strip than to really do anything, much less each other. And the couch was a little snug for the both of them. Not to mention the sound of the clock ticking in their ears. But it was a form of sex, and it worked.

After an awkward height difference check, and hip bones meeting, and grinding, and moaning, and... After John's hand finally broke free from a tangle of clothes and the friction of used skin met their lengths, after the effort. Sherlock enjoyed it. He liked the way their bodies didn't correspond together, he loved it when John's hand twitched and slid off their cocks, he ached for more when he noticed blood drip from his lip to the other's chest (new kink, John bites). And he came and went, the intensity of this orgasm smashing into his body and brain like a fucking speeding freight train. The proof of it strung up John's (his new lover's) torso.

The only thing better was the muffled, "Oh shit, oh fucking shit, Sherlock.." And the last few pumps of John's hand until he too spent himself. The tacky substance being pressed and mixed together as Sherlock nearly drops all his weight at once on his lover, hanging his open mouth to blow hot breath on John's neck. "You didn't play the game, John." He sounded displeased. "I guess we'll have to try again another time. And a time after that."

. . .

Hamish is five. He starts preschool today.

The parents found their son would say little. Only necessary things like, "Children are dull." And John would remind himself to smack Sherlock another time because, "No, your father said children are dull. The kids you see today could possibly be the same faces you see twelve years from now. That is very much not dull." They were in a car spared by Mycroft a year ago, Sherlock driving with his eyes glued to the streets, saying to not speak while he has two lives in his hands.

Hamish made a retort of a noise and whined into his hands, "Bu- Papa! I no want to see kids that long." Sherlock was stopped at a light and turned around quickly (like he always did during stops when he could talk) and said, "I know, they are a horrendous sight." John's hand slapped measurably hard on his shoulder, making Hamish giggle.

They made a slow stop in the driveway where a number of other parents either walked their kids up, or let the little ones run up on their own. Sherlock looked at Hamish knowingly through the rear view mirror. "So, what shall it be?" He used his monster voice, and again, Hamish laughed along with a smile to John. (Monster voice also makes minor appearances during John and Sherlock's tickle time). Hamish thought though, tapping his bag, "I'll walk."

John turned around in his chair, "Be good, okay? And no scaring other children with your father's morgue stories." Sherlock was proud of that. "Mm'kay papa." He was looking out his window already. "And be sure to tell the children the murder scene stories instead." Sherlock just wanted to make sure everyone would know whose kid it was. Another, "I will, daddy." His eyes still glued to people passing outside. John unbuckled, turning around better in the car, "Something wrong, love?" A worried look. Hamish clenches his bag tighter around his shoulder, biting his little curious lip.

"Nothing wrong. I just have a question." He says. Sherlock peeks back at him through the rear view mirror again, eyebrows up, "What would that be?" And Hamish and John intake a breath at the same moment. Then the five year old twiddles his fingers as he speaks, "Why does all the other kids have a mommy?" Bam. If it wasn't for the school bell about to ring, they'd have a proper talk. But it'd have to wait. John takes initiative. "Because you have two daddy's. They have a mommy and a daddy." It was never really worded right in his head. The genius rounded his lips, "It doesn't make you any different, Hamish. You are their equals and they are your equals." They met eyes. And Hamish nodded.

Another time. Right?

. . .

Hamish is eight.

A little girl gave him a flower during a class party. John thought he was playing bashful the whole ride home, but Hamish was truly clueless. When they got home, Sherlock greeted his little boy with a hug, then a "Flower? Who's given you a flower?" The son replies with, "Amanda from class." Sherlock and John do their eye talking, and it's clear that is all the information he's given on the matter.

"Well, it's very pretty. Did you give her anything in return?"

Hamish's little, "No." Then John's confused, "Do you like Amanda?"

Sherlock gives a last kiss on the kids forehead and stands. Hamish nods up and down. "Then what's bothering you?" John wisks away to bill through papers on the table while he listens closely, hearing Hamish huff out his thoughts.

"She said she really likes me, and knows what it's like to have gay parents." There you have it. His confusion. He wasn't sure if she really liked him or like the fact they shared a quality in life. It wasn't the first time he's said 'gay' but it was the first time it meant something.

"Does it bother you? Do kids bother you?" John dropped the papers the second he heard, and Sherlock dropped to a chair equally. "Not that many other students know." He shrugged. And Sherlock made it clear to repeat John question, "Does it bother you, Hamish?"

The kid was still standing in the middle of the room, "It never has. I guess I just have questions sometime, you know?" The flower has fallen to the ground, but it wasn't forgotten, John was holding himself back from grabbing it and pressing it for a memory book. Sherlock smiles, "A question like...?"

Hamish smiles nervously at his father, "Like... Do you want me to like her? Or do you want me to like other boys.?" It stung a little on impact, but John took it well, gripping the table sides until he found a seat. "The only thing we want from you is to be yourself, Hamish." Sherlock continues where the other left, "And if you like Amanda, you like Amanda. We are not in any way pressuring you to one side or the other." Having children, it, well, it really humanized Holmes.

Hamish came in for a quick hug to both parents, saying "i love you" and "i'm sorry", then left with his fallen flower to his room. The questions were to come in boat loads.

. . .

Hamish is twelve, and finds his bonding time with Sherlock while practicing violin. It makes the father happy to know they have this in common. But violin time is usually cut short by a knocking at the door. It's either Thomas, a new friend, or Annie, another little girl prying her way to his little clueless heart. And then the once happy father feels his little boy go just as easily as he came. The front door closing.

He walks in late with Annie one evening. They come in holding hands, a thing they always did and it was always something that broke John's heart. They stop infront of Sherlock who still fiddled at his violin. "Dad, can she stay over just until her mom comes home from work?" Annie's been locked out. Again. Work was just a ploy her mother told her, and kept the secret of pubs and drugs out. The two father's, however, were wiser. "I. Hamish I suppose, but you're taking the couch and she's taking your bed." Her mother wasn't coming home, wasn't it obvious?

Another evening, just weeks later, this happens. "Pops, Thomas' dad's drunk. Can you do something?" Again, why are some people aloud to be parents? John looks up from the newspaper. An article of drug use? Coincidence? Yeah. But he loses concentration upon Hamish and Thomas' hands clasped. "TH-fdasdv..." Tongue twist. His minds clicks slowly, remembering the delicacy of the situation. Drunkard dad, friend at his side. "Need me to take care of him?" Which he's done before. He's went over there, talked sense into the ignorant father. Silence. No reply. "Do you need a place to stay, Thomas?" Their hands clench, Thomas hides his face into Hamish's shoulder. He nods. Then Hamish puts his other hand on his friend's neck. Soothing him? Maybe.

. . .

Hamish is fourteen. fifteen. sixteen.

And he's been keeping secrets.

Annie was Hamish' girlfriend. Thomas was just his friend. That was how things fucking were. John didn't know that if he walked in casually into his little boys room he'd see two horny teens groping one another's body.

In hindsight. the dads should have seen it coming. Thomas, the dirty blond-headed boy with a stout figure, would follow behind their son closer than usual. Hamish, the black-haird and lanky boy, would allow it. The hand holding was everyday, the interference with Annie was nonstop. Once, Sherlock swears up and down he saw Tom's hand in Hamish's back pocket. But this... You couldn't see it coming if it were in your face.

"Not on my watch." John was instantly furious. His mind went to drill sargent, and his body remembered the stiff and controlled stance of the military. Thomas threw on his hoodie and Hamish wrapped the sheets on his torso. All the touching was outside the pant area, which made John a little at ease. "Mr. Watson, don't get-" None of it. "-Go, Thomas. I really can't do this with you right now." The boy shy'd off, picking up his bag and closing the door gently.

And then there was a father to son talk. about relationships, girls, now boys, confusion, being safe, being faithful, being yourself... But none of it would compare to Hamish's question when John was about to leave.

"Why am I such a fuck up?"

. . .

Hamish is seventeen. He found drugs. He found Thomas again. He's losing his parents. And the arguements never stop. The family is cold to one another. The once little boy now comes home with bruises and black marks over his pale skin from bullies, the ones who oppose gays.

Hamish even got one nasty blue spot from Sherlock. Tensions rose. Mouth's went off. And a hand slipped forcefully Hamish's direction. It was done. John never spoke, Sherlock never stopped. Then rings came into play. Thomas popped out a gold band and slipped it on Hamish's ring finger before the two disapproving parents. More cursing and swearing. A broken telly. Glass everywhere.

The prodigy child was now a destructive teen. He walked out with Thomas, leaving his things behind, leaving his parents behind. And left. "What are you guys, hypocrites?"

. . .

It's Hamish' birthday. He's supposed to be nineteen. The violence has calmed down. But with the sacrifice of seeing Hamish seldom. They haven't spoken since that day. Sherlock and John comtemplated splitting up so John can be a doctor again and Sherlock can solve mysteries once more.

. . .

Hamish is twenty one. He comes home. Without Thomas. He's smiling sadly, holding flowers, holding a card full of money. "Dads?" He asks wrily into the dark flat. The place he grew up in. He would have left and come back later if he didn't see John spread out on the sofa, wearing one of Sherlock's old robes. He's a bit older now, not old, but older. The grey a little more dominant. "Pops!" His next word comes out choked and filled with laughter. He's sickened with happiness.

John sits up with alarm, a light beard growing. "Sherlock?" He questions, a hangover apparent. Hamish frowns, sitting next to his father and petting the hair on his head down, "It's me, Hamish. I came to apologize." John frowns too, grabbing the hand on his head and holding it tight. "You're too late, son. He's left, last night. He just walked out with no reply." It hurt, but it needed to be said. Hamish didn't want to cry, because it's apparent John's already done enough of that. So he smiles again, pulling John to his chest and sucking him in.

"Do you even know how much I love you, pops?"

. . .

Hamish is twenty two and a half. He's moved in with John and has done a private search for Sherlock. And after all that time he didn't even think about Mycroft's help. Until he got a phone call, himself from the uncle. His father paid visits to crime scenes, and after that year and a half, Mycroft found him. At a crime scene. A murder scene.

It was Thomas. The man was in the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time and was fatally stabbed. It was a bittersweet sight for Hamish. His last love lying on the cold pavement with dark dried blood pooled in his middle. And there was Sherlock, his father, hunched over the young male. But he wasn't inspecting him. No, he was paying a last respect.

"-And I forgive you." Was all Hamish caught before gripping Sherlock by the shoulder and pulling him up for a hug he was going to get whether he wanted it or not. "Hamish?" He was stunned, intook breath as his arms finally tightened around his son.

Think about someone you love leaving. It's not hard. Sherlock dealt with it as anyone would.

"Why do you sound so surprised? huh?"

. . .

Hamish is twenty three. He found a girl he remembers fondly. An old friend. Annie.

After a few weeks of recap, Hamish found out how much Annie really meant. He stayed for those few weeks with Sherlock and John, watching over them, watching them in general. They sat at the table quietly at first, mumbling nonesense to one another. Then after a few days, that cold collected shield of Sherlock's fell, and his hand found John's again. It was rough, but a start.

Hamish moved out once more, with a bit of grace. He reintroduced Annie to his dads, and had a six hour, one sided, chat about how this was how things were supposed to be. He was moving in with her. He loved her. It was seriously happening.

. . .

Hamish is twenty four. He's getting married.

With a grey, amy based, suit with gold thread. With black hair curled under a black top hat, that matched his black button-up shit underneath. With a pink bow tie. With a father wrapped around each arm. He was going to walk down that aisle.

Both John and Sherlock wore a pin Hamish picked out. The father's didn't understand why Sherlock got a cat and John got a dog, but they didn't question it. They also didn't question Hamish's new love for alternative music that lead his fiance down the aisle after him. It was one bass guitar from a concert.

Then the, "I do"s came into play and Annie Pegle became a permanent apart of Hamish's life.

After the horrible father son dances and the slow dancing afterwards, Hamish walked up to his belolved dads with a crooked grin supported with his crooked top hat. And he asked them one simple question.

It made Sherlock eye John with a revived flame they hadn't seen in so long. They remembered what they were doing still with each other. They remembered all those years with Hamish. Hamish and all his necessary questions that brought them together and sometimes threw them apart.

Hamish asked, "Why not get married yourselves?"


	3. It Has All Been Escalating

It Has All Been Escalating

When John bumps his knee...

"Sherlock! I am fine!" John tries as Sherlock starts shucking through medical supplies. "Blood is not fine. If you are to continue this case, you need to have it wrapped..." He looks up maniacly through his disheveled hair, "...You are the doctor afterall."

He was right, but John wasn't fully prepared for those pale, cold fingers to roll his trouser leg up. It was what he was avoiding.

"Tssk. John, it's black and blue! What on Earth did you hurt yourself on?" He was going to have to change from his blood soaked pants, "On the table after I tripped over YOUR box of evidence." Then he mumbled under his breath, "Evidence that has nothing to do with the case." Sherlock's head pops up, "Heard you. And it does, John. Don't be so clueless."

tissues. Hot water. Gauze, wrapping, wincing. Pill popping. Then the genius takes a stand, "See how it feels in thirty. We're going to the morgue for a body inspection." John grinds his teeth, "Inspect my ass, Sherlock! I'm going upstairs for a nap. I've been running around town for seven hours too long. You just bloody don't care about my choice." The way he limped to the door reminded Sherlock too much of his other limp, the psychosematic one.

"You mistake me for not caring. I simply expect you to follow along despite injuries, like you always have." John wasn't listening until Sherlock followed it with, "I do care."

. . .

When Sherlock lost his memory...

He didn't technically lose it, he was hypnotized to lose it. Then he forgot he forgot his memory after remembering... -It went something like this:

"Do you remember yet?" John casually asked as he walked across the flat. "No, but i'm doing research." Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, staring very blankly at the wall. The doctor leaned over the table, eyeing bills, and laughed. "That's good, research is something you'd do." But the genius frowns. Stands. "Don't you want to know what kind of research i'm doing?"

John shrugged then nods. Sherlock gets closer, closeness being his point. "It doesn't have to do with my memory." The doctor closes his eyes, as if making him disappear, "What then?" And he can feel Sherlock's toothy grin get ever the more closer to his face, "It has to do with you, and how you're not expressing your hidden feelings." John's eyes open in a mad rush of 'oh shit' and 'fuck i'm pinned against the counter'. "Sherlock! If you are pretending to be out of your wits-"

"-But i'm not. I've just noticed the obvious attraction you have towards me, and would like to appease you in that." The mad way Sherlock stands, lankier than ever, he looks terrifying and brilliant. In one. And John can't move, he can only be aware of hips pinning his down. "Let me prove my point."

Thus began a stranger in Sherlock Holmes' body and mind forcing his tongue artfully inside John's mouth, creating a pleasant sensation of spit and lips. And knowing nothing of what was really going on, John began moving his jaw against the other man's. Though it was short lived as Sherlock finally pulled away walking off stating, "That needing no proving. Just thought it was necessary."

Weeks later, when Sherlock regrettfully did remember everything, John was picking up his jaw off the floor because the genius just went on. He denied ever forgetting his wonderful memory. He truly forgot all about that so-said kiss John had trouble reminding him about.

It was gone. "Sorry, John."

. . .

When John gets scared of heights...

They had scaled the height of an old church, standing on its steeple. The suspect left notes, and directed them here for the next. And it was sprinkling.

"Sherlock, you've got the note now please just get us down." John holding tight to the center point, speaking to Sherlock just on the other side. "The museum of Science, just a few blocks down! We'll make it!" Was his reply. Daintily stepping sideways on the near loose roof tiling. John pleaded again with quiet, "sherlock.. Sher- sherlock, please." He couldn't let go, but he had to.

"Just down this way, it will be quick. Promise." Sherlock's attempt as reassuring. So John did let go with a gutless cue, inching far behind the taller man. Another, "Sherlock?" A slippery hinge. Rubber soles squeaking. "Sherlock!" John didn't know they were so close to the edge, or were so far up. The next thing in his line of sight was the rain covered pavement below... But it wasn't coming at him. Sherlock caught him.

"John. Do take precaution, this is a very dangerous place not to." John shot his eyes up at him angry, shocked at him, but they fell again, and he sat down on the tile. A shaking started out in his hands, and he just couldn't move anymore. Seeing the ground so far away was burned in an image. The wind was soon blocked on his right side then. It was Sherlock. "Apologies Watson... Take your time." A murder could wait. This time. Just once.

John didn't have a sly retort, a stray tear had fallen and a string of feelings were caught in his throat. Proving that you can be an old man and still have strong emotions. Old man going as far as ex-military.

Then he slumped, his head falling against his friend's shoulder, rain pouring lightly down his cheeks. Comfort wasn't something they gave one another often, example Sherlock's tenseness. But it was nice to dream of it. To think that one minded genius under his head was capable of sensitivity. "Lets go chase a killer." He smiled.

. . .

When there's an Intruder in 221B...

With a preference of cold showers, Sherlock let the freezing water roll off his body. If ordinary people had life changing self conversations in the shower, Sherlock had Universal changing ones. Though, he wasn't thinking. His mind was on a break after spending a full two days going through dead end evidence. It wasn't useful to overthink now.

He's just soaped his hair, and the suds ran over his eyes when there was a series of quiet _thud thud thud's_. And the slow creak of the bathroom door opening and closing. "John?" Sherlock asked blindly, but he was shushed. John whispered, "Keep down. There's a man with an automatic rifle in there, and you've hidden my gun again."

The doctor must've skilled a hand to the water and shut it off, as it stopped running. The curtains still closed, "I didn't hide it, I used it and never properly gave it back." Still blindly talking. "I told you to keep down!" Disgruntled little hedgehog. The footsteps outside became audible now. "John, get me my robe and jump in the shower." Orders. But John only did half of them, giving the man in the shower his blue robe with stretched arms.

"John Hamish Watson!" The steps grew ever the more closer to the door, light underneath blocked. John gulped, walking to the back of the tub and fiddling inside, just as the handle began turning.

Sherlock looked clearly tired and wet and pissed at John for not obeying sooner. But it wasn't any of John's worry now as the man took his arm and hauled him close, putting a mouth to his ear.

The man with the gun was stepping inside, the gun in his hands loudly shifting, his boots loudly thumping.

"Sex noises, make them." Sherlock's words were low and drafted across John's neck. The man with the gun was hired, obvious, and upon hearing a noise as such would throw him off, it'd be unexpected and unauthorized. Sex noises, easy way to fend off dumb intruders with guns. Then Sherlock proceeded to make an extremely obscene, high pitched gutteral moan and hit his fist on the shower wall. John's eyes grew wide and shocked. Again, he just couldn't do it.

The genius grew agitated, hearing the intruder's gun click, and mouthed 'for heaven's sake', and threw a swift knee to John's gut and groinal region. A low, pained groan from John turned (thankfully) to forced moans, and he caught on. Crimpled over himself, he mimicked Sherlock, creating what would sound like two men having sex from the outside. John nearly let out a sniffled laugh as Sherlock yelled out, "Oh GOD YES!"

The steps from the intruder backtracked, and he left within a minute. And the two men stopped the ungodly noises to just look at each other, slightly out of breath, and full of suppressed laughter. John finally broke as he strung out the shower curtain, "That was probably better than sex itself."

Sherlock proceeded to turn the water back on, "What? Convincing a gunman we're at it or the fact that a gun was in fact on us the whole time?"

. . .

When they went undercover...

It was a gay bar. They've been following this woman across town, to dozens of diners, to countless pubs, and now they find she waits at a gay bar. Strange but everyone needs money. (It doesn't take a sociopath to figure this one out)

"Sherlock, she sees us. I think she knows, she's going to-" Sherlock's hand went to John's hair, fast, he knew this was bad and was thinking of a good coverup. Something. So he thought: Gay bar, men, we're two men, kiss! It was so plain and simple he thought about asking John if it'd be too obvious, but the mistress was coming in hot.

The next word crumbled out of John's mouth and into Sherlock's as he swept John's back towards the woman. He watched her carefully, head cocked and lips pressed just off of John's, just off, barely. The corners of one another's mouth's meeting. The genius expected John to put up a fight, but he didn't. He guesses they both were calculated a good 'hide'. The woman stopped, the tray in her hand faultered, then she backed up, walking off with multiple double takes back at the men.

Sherlock threw himself off of John, then watched the other wipe of his mouth on the back of his jacket. "You know..." Here we go. "I was thinking the same thing, SAME THING! But I was thinking more along the lines of faking a kiss, like in plays or bad movies." Sherlock rolled his eyes, beginning to walk to a safer watch spot, "I didn't kiss you exactly, John. Why do you have to over exaggerate?" What the genius didn't know is that John was remembering the amnesia, the hypnosis. "God, Sherlock. Just keep moving."

. . .

When Sherlock remembers his memory loss...

"I kissed you?" Sherlock said one day, very confused, infront of the telly as John typed away on his blog. The good doctor didn't move, "Yes, in the gay bar." His eyes looking to a corner thinking: 'Why does that sound so wrong?'

"No, no. John, I really kissed you. I snogged you right in the kitchen!" He was pointing. Christ, he was pointing. The light bulb flickered on, slowly. John stopped typing, "You were under some spell. I wouldn't think too much into-" Persistence. "Yes! I did. And I was doing research over something, that's why I did it."

Thinking. John was trying to avoid this, "You weren't! Really, doctor's said you may never remember what-" Cutting in, "I spoke to you too. I said it was research for... God, what was it?"

John leapt out of his chair as soon as Sherlock did, as soon as he began dancing around the flat with his hands at eye level. "IT WAS DUMB! Okay? Sherlock, some things are never to be-" Then the hands fell, and Sherlock opened his eyes, he stopped dancing and running, "Hidden feelings?" He was confused again. "I must have been mistaken on that, right?" He squinted as he tried to follow John's eyes, but the doctor turned his head away and down, arms insecurely folding over one another.

Sherlock dropped any facial expression except 'Realization'. His shoulder evening out, posture straightening. "Oh." John nodded, avoiding being seen, feet swifting towards, where, the door? But the detective didn't let him go, he caught his arm, "I understand why you wouldn't want me to remember this, but there's one thing I don't understand." The doctor's expression looked up from a personal hell, "What would you not understand?"

And Sherlock felt a new feeling, one he hasn't made contact with since the drugs, the bad years.

"Why do you feel embarrassed?"

. . .

When John punched Sherlock...

It had to happen. Sherlock needed to know what's right and wrong to say. He absentmindedly insulted John's ex and John had the last straw. He ended up punching the wanna-be genius, throwing him to the ground, straddling him, and threatening to put another blow to the perfect cheek bones.

"I take it back, she was a wonderful cook!" Too late for appeasement now. John clenched his hand tighter to his collar. "No, you owe me now." And Sherlock didn't know what he owed him, money, words? "What on gods green Earth do I owe you now?" Maybe the two had a few glasses of wine, but the arguement was real. "An explaination."

Alright. Explaination he could do. Easy. He does this on a regular basis. He nods against the hand in his shirt. The thigh's straddling his stomache inch up, John's face tilting and eyes squinting, "Tell me why you tease me all the damn time. And don't act like you don't know. Because you do. You do. I see it, you know it." Sherlock stops struggling, and he bangs his head back on the ground.

The wine must be clearing in the doctor's head now because he catches his breath and scatters off his friend, crawling backwards, falling to his ass. Sherlock just lays there, heaving a good heavy few sigh's before sitting up much like John is across the floor. "I can only speak for me when I say I'm not one for a relationship. This friendship is actually the closest thing I've been to any sort of love. So, a response your looking for isn't something I can give you." Maybe they didn't have that much wine, maybe they drank one glass and pretended they had three.

"I'm sorry. I was being, ignorant." They exchange a glance, and Sherlock sees John's equal frustration.

. . .

When there's another intruder...

John was just woken up, taking his ritual scalding shower before work. Real work, like at the clinic work, not detective work. Not yet. When the door burst open and shut closed. "Sherlock." He knew who it was, nobody on Earth would be so enthusiastic about walking into a room.

"Stop your vocals, John. Another man with a gun was chasing me, he's in the flat." There was a quiet sound of shoes then Sherlock stepped quickly into the shower. "Sherlock! There's one too many corrections you need for doing that!" Naked, wet, then there's Sherlock, dry, clothed. "I hear him, he'll see my shadow, move-" And suddenly Sherlock's body was pressing tightly against John's side, his arms above the shorter man's head. "He's not even in here!" John whispered, covering and shifting his body so that nobody touched anyone's genitals.

"Shh, I think he's heard you." Tick tock. "You know hot water really dries out your skin." So nonchalantly said John turns to face Sherlock in a small fit of rage. Then regrets it. "What-" His voice loses, "Are you doing in here?" He finally asks because no matter how hard he listens, there is nobody in the flat, nothing moving.

And no matter how hard he tries, he can't look away from Sherlock's clothes soaking slowly through, hair poufing down, skin prickled, he hates the hot water, but he loves it with him (John thinks), the way his arms are still framing him from above, and how their faces are sharing warmth close together. "I'm giving you your explaination."

The perfect porceiline skin, the perfect tinted pink of those lips, the perfect shade of tinted blue of his wet shirt, the perfect kiss. This time soft, this time different, this time it's full of something. Meaning? And this time John lets his mouth fall open and Sherlock's tongue is welcomed in, and it's not snogging or kissing. It's making out in their shared shower. And John is overly self conscious, he's hyperaware of his nudeness...But.

But it's Sherlock infront of him, and it's his friend, and it's alright. His cheeks go hotter than the water running down them as Sherlock pulls away, the string of spit connecting them being washed down their skin and fabric. "When?" It was so quiet, it's hard to tell if it was really said afterall.

"Always. I guess it has all been escalating to this." His arms fell and scanned over his shoulders, pulling him in for a hug. John dismissed his discomfort of having an awkward shower erection pushing into his friend's leg, becaues the nudeness of Sherlock shone now. He did what he never expected him to do. And that's love someone. And it was him. All he could do was wrap his arms around him and give in, letting his feelings well up inside his chest as they stand there. Letting the hot water run cold.


	4. Living With A Teenaged Girl

_**Author's Note: This one's different. Please review guys so I know if you like stories like this or the ones before. I felt the need of a girl named Annabella after a dream I had. I love you guys, thanks for reading!**_

* * *

Living with a Teenaged Girl

She was John and Harry's cousin. Anna, or Annabella for long. Sherlock called her menacing, his own nickname. She's feirce, good for a laugh, great for company.

Anna was also sixteen. "And a half." She would laugh. It was supposed to be for one Summer, just until her mother got out of the hospital. But the Summer turned into school year as her mother's condition turned for the worst.

"I tried telling the doctor's sooner she had diabete's, but they refused to look back at blood work." Sherlock found it aggravating that something so simple went in one ear and out the- yeah, other. "Your mum is fine, or will be. Now they know how to help her." John was overly reassuring, gave Anna all the love and attention she needed.

Anna, with her brown hair, fair skin, smiled back with a worried smile, "You're the only one's who ever seem to give me good news." Her knees tucked up to her chin, John's sweater swallowing her thin figure, hands peeking out holding a mug of cocoa. Her hazel eyes were just like John's, except one eye had a cresent moon shape of brown, making her iris seem much bigger than actuality. There was a name for it, but Sherlock wasn't yet knowledged of it.

"You're the only one who can put a smile like this on my face." Not true, with John, Sherlock could easily make a grand assumption and turn his half smile into full blown canny. But Sherlock wasn't about to call him out on it.

"Since I've moved in, you two have been more of a father figure than my own father. Mother figure too, if it's not an insult!" Anna's mom, though ill and in need of blood, was a poor parent. CPS had her name on file, for what though isn't something Anna likes speaking of. "Not an insult at all! Just tell us which is the mother." Sherlock smiled over his tea.

Bringing us to John and Sherlock's boiling romance. One night after being handcuffed to a stopsign for five hours, John let his sleep deprived self slip his hand through Sherlock's wavy ringlets, he thought he was dreaming until Sherlock turned his head, mind churning the reasons why he'd do just that. The police found them two minutes later contorting with the handcuffs to snog one another.

. . .

"I need to borrow some cash." Anna walked in from another room, Sherlock not seeing where. Money, something he'd let John decide where that went, if only he weren't at work. He folded the newspaper and stood, weary of grabbing his wallet. "How much and what for?" He questioned because kids weren't always wise with pounds. Especially since Anna wanted those really cute pair of shoes just down the street!

She stood awkwardly infront of him, counting in her head (which seemed a little clammy). "Just a fiver. I'll bring change."

Sherlock licked at his lips, "Again, what for?" He was't being pesky or rude, his voice was more curious like his eyebrows. Anna swallowed, twice, giving out a sigh and ringing it out, "Oh just supplies."

Sherlock looked at her until a light bulb flashed on. He registered that 'supplies' meant 'pads or tampons', something he wasn't used to buying. Her hair was tied in a high but loose bun, and her face was dead tired. He fished out ten with no question and made a face of 'sorry but here hope this helps'. Anna blinked hard at the money then took it with a fake grin. "Thanks Sherl's." Embarressment, Sherlock couldn't help but be responsible for hers.

"You can keep the change, Annabell." Maybe menacing wasn't as catchy as he previously thought. She turned and waved, then walked out in a shamed pace. Sherlock fell back into his chair and flicked his phone out. This time, a text couldn't resolve his minds poking. And John's work could wait.

_Phone rings. Picks up. _"Sherlock? I'm in break in twenty, could you call me then?"

"No I can't, Anna will be back soon. I was just wondering-" John's voice raises a little, "What did you do to Anna?!" Sherlock lets out a scoff, how could he think he'd do something to her? "Nothing, it's just- You know the thing that she goes through every month?" Why didn't that come out right? Why couldn't he just be scientific about this stuff like any other? "Her period, Sherlock? Yes, I know." A sound of papers being tapped. "Alright. I didn't know she was so quiet about it. She's never asked for anything like money or medicine from me." Was Anna getting to him?

It was as if a father felt left out of their daughter's pain and wanted to be there for her. That was the only explaination Sherlock could come up with, to tell himself why he needed to know. John breathed into the phone for a second, "Anna usually just asks me when i'm busy doing something, it's not a big deal. Did you really call me for this?"

Sherlock didn't know to be honest. He swallowed something in his throat and settled tighter in his seat. "I'm just new to stuff like this, John. And I apologize for taking you from work." He was going to just hang up, but John's little, "Okay, Love you, bye." Got him, and he was quick to responde with, "I love you too!" before the other line went dead.

. . .

"Andrew is taking me to see fireworks." Annabella was wrapped in two jackets, hand on door handle. "Andrew? Who's Andrew and why is he not infront of us saying what time he'll bring you home?" John was growing mad, shocked overly. Anna's hand fell, the other coming up to calm them down. "No, it's not like that! He even invited Mrs. Hudson after meeting her in Speedy's. We're not going to be alone."

Sherlock untensed his hand the one he never realized was tense. "Call. Twice. Once when you get there and the second when you're leaving." Anna smiled then, giving a quick kiss to both men's cheeks before running to the door. "We're meeting this boy, Annabella." John was stern, but smiled after.

It's through half of the school semester, and already Anna is considered apart of the family. Especially since her mother's been released from the hospital and has yet to pick her daughter up. She complains she's too sick to raise a kid. The men decided that they can care for her until she's properly eighteen.

She leaves with a fancy grin, and the sound of a car pulls up outside. Mrs. Hudon's voice is unmistakable as she makes way outside. Three car doors shut. The vehicle drives off.

"I feel like we're an old married couple." John says, slowly shimmying his hand with Sherlock's. "We'll get there." Sherlock drops his head to his shoulder, curling his legs up and on John's lap. John holds his legs tight and closes his eyes, the faint music of Anna's is still on upstairs. "Get there? We're not even married. We've skipped the marriage, the sex, the thought of children and went straight to... this."

Sherlock let his other hand wander to John's shirt button where it just played with it, "Well damn, John, I was trying to make it a surprise." The doctor turned his head, "Surprise? What do you mean..?" Sherlock grinned, leaning up to look him in the eyes. "I was going to propose to you tonight and have raunchy, nasty, dirty sex to you on the kitchen table." His face was so serious. John couldn't breath.

Then Sherlock let his bellowed laugh resound and he found John's shoulder again. It took a minute but the doctor found a laugh as well, letting his head fall back. He shifted in his seat as he spoke, "Do that one more time and you owe me a dry cleaning bill." Sherlock kissed his neck, "So that's a yes, then?"

"Damn yes."

. . .

"Dad- Uh, Uncle John." Anna mixed up her words, she found a sore spot in the paint on the wall, "Andrew's outside, he'd like to meet you." It's been quite a few months, and only the sound of Andrew's car was in present knowledge of the boy. Sherlock perked up from John's laptop, "Me too I hope?"

Anna laughed, grinning, "You can't have one without the other..." She popped her head out the door, whispered something, then opened it wide. And the square jawed, black haird, sharp dressed teen walked in with a scared but strong grin. "I'm sorry to come in on a short notice." His hand coming out to shake John's hand, walking eagerly to him then Sherlock at the kitchen table.

John turned the telly down and fixed his posture, "So your the chap stealing Annabella all the time?" Sherlock closed the laptop, "And calling her at three in the morning?" Raised eyebrows. Andrew cleared his throat, only talking once Anna nudged him on with a hand to his arm. "I wish her the upmost respect. You must know how relationships are, though, especially with someone as amazing as Annabella. You can't stay away from them any longer than a few hours."

Sherlock stood, walking to lean against the wall, he was showing just how much taller he was than Andrew (wasn't much), and what one wrong word could do. Andrew slipped on silence, "I know I should have come over sooner." John smiled, "You really should have."

"But I was a little scared to knowing Sherlock was a detective and you're an ex-army doctor." He was nervous, the way he rubbed his neck, put a small amount of space between himself and Anna. Sherlock smiled, "You should be scared." John patted a spot on the couch for the young man to sit, which he did. And Anna held her breath, waiting for the talk to begin, for something serious and scary, she didn't want to hear it. And Sherlock, for once, saw it. "Hey, Annabella, I have something to show really quick downstairs. Before I forget." He never forgets.

. . .

The, nows the time to call them, fathers loved Andrew. They even understood his weariness of meeting them. Though, they couldn't keep the thought in the back of their head it was because of their relationship, being both father's with no mother. Andrew was bright and charming and very much ahead of his time.

He loved to spend time with John, even Sherlock, just as much as he loved spending it with Annabella. He's been on a case to the outskirts of London once with Sherlock alone. The dads just took to Andrew so nicely.

One day, nearing Summer again, Andrew came up specifically when Anna was at school to talk to Sherlock and John. He had flowers and brought lunch. John felt his stomach drop, the questions forming in his head. They sat without a word, just curious, wondering what was going on.

Then Andrew blew breath from his lips, "I want you to know, that I love Anna for every atom she's worth." That metephor going into Sherlock's check list. "And i'm only doing this because of the opportunities. It's something I hope you'll understand Mr. Watson." He chewed on his lips, he set the items down and eyed the parents that were sitting so closely together, worried and a small amount angered.

"I've enlisted to the military. I'm going in for my physical tonight."

Sherlock felt his head go numb. He wasn't sure how he could up and leave poor Bell for the military. It was dumbfounding. He was mad. John was feeling the same, but on an octave lower. He's done the same. Hell, if it weren't for the army, he'd be married to some lass named Sharon. Sherlock couldn't speak. He couldn't even stand to walk away from the anger, so John did. "When are you to leave?"

Andrew swallowed, "In a month."

. . .

"Dad I need ten." It's been about a year since she's moved in. A little over actually. And it was settled that Sherlock was dad and John was father. Andrew's been postponed another month, and finally told her after many tears. The flat was now a family household.

Sherlock set his papers aside and drew his wallet out, "Do I need to ask what you're buying?" His hair was a bit longer than usual. Anna shook her head, "Just the usual." Meaning the same stuff she bought every month. She looked more tired than usual.

She left, and came back shuffling to the shower room. She stayed in there for a good ten minutes, missing her favorite show she always loved watching. But Sherlock only disreguarded it until John came in from work, setting his satchel aside. "Alright, i'm checking on her." The worried father said, making a straight line to the shower room. John looked up, not saying anything but followed. "What for?" He said when he caught up.

Sherlock's ear was up to the bathroom door, he didn't knock and he's glad he didn't. Annabella was crying. She was closest to the door so she was at the sink, possibly leaning over it. Was she hurt? Did Sherlock not see her come in with a wound or did he not hear a bad phone call? Without thought, or John's permission, Sherlock swung the door open. And the sight told the story.

A pale faced, tear stained teen holding a pregnancy test that most likely said 'positive'. The test dropped into the sink and Bell's face dropped. She couldn't decide if she was angry, if she was going to yell, or if she was going to pass out on the floor. John's never seen his cousin, and now daughter, so distraugh, and he hopes to never see her like this again. He went to her, holding her in his arms before she could decide.

Sherlock looked quickly at the test and his mind was already decided. He was beyond angry. Beyond mad. "He's at home. I'm talking to him. And talking to YOU later." For a man whose lived a life without need to feel like this, it sure does feel surreal to actually be in the shoes. To be the angry father with purpose. To have your 'daughter' horribly mad at you for socking your boyfriend. Andrew. The one kid they liked.

Annabella let out small, "No, please, sorry, Andrew"s that dissolved to whimpers, she couldn't speak hardly loud enough, and her legs gave out finally. John was holding her every way through it, though. Smoothing a hand over her head, catching her, sitting with her on the ground, hugging her, saying, "You know he's only doing this because he cares for you. He'd never do this for anyone else." Kissing her cheek, feeling her give up with speaking back, the weight of her becoming constant, Then Anna falls asleep out of pure exhaustion. Her cheeks flushed, body coated in sweat.

. . .

Sherlock was already at the hospital when John took Annabella there out of worry. He was at the counter signing papers, and exchanged looks with John until Bell was issued a room. The father paced to Sherlock, whispering a yell at him. "What did you do to Andrew?" How much would you be fined for punching somebody in a hospital?

"I did nothing. I went to his flat and he was passed out in the middle of the living area. You should be thanking me I didn't just leave the hormone driven man there." He handed the clipboard to the nurse and walked with John down the halls. "You were gone awhile, care to elaborate what happened?" John wasn't fully sure the whole truth was said. Sherlock looked away, collecting himself before stopping just outside Anna's room, "I go inside, and he's barely awake, in a crawl on the floor. I go to him, get a better look, and his nose has been bleeding, he's been coughing blood, he had no pigment in his skin. I stop the bleeding, but he begins throwing up, and there are no other injuries. Nobody attacked him, so I knew it was internal. So I called the ambulance and waited. He passed out without saying a word."

What could John say to that? What would an appropriate response be besides, "Lets see if Annabella's doing any better." They walk in, slowly, she's asleep, with an IV. "There's a good chance telling her would be harmful to her health." Sherlock whispers, taking seat at her bedside. John nods, he knows.

. . .

"So he's going to be okay, right?" Anna walked inside the flat slowly, the cab ride home being the place to tell her of her boyfriends state. The doctors found cancer in Andrew's lung. Though the only thing Sherlock said was, "He's just really sick, I bet he'll be out of the hospital in no time." Because 'Andrew's dying of terminal illness' and 'no treatment will help' was too sickening.

John put a hand on his daughter's shoulder, "He will be more than fine." Lying wasn't that bad. They hoped.

Bella shrugged away, setting an eye to the window, then to her stomach. "And you aren't mad about this all?" John felt conflicted, because he was upset, but he knew what they were thinking, he's been there. "Disappointed to say the least. I'm more worried and excited than anything. You have a good life ahead of you." Sherlock agreed, coming to join her at the window, a place he reflected at. "I love you, Anna. We love you." He leaned and kissed her hair, the faintly curled locks of her dark brown hair.

"I figured." She laughs.

. . .

"I hate buttons, John. Why aren't you wearing one of those jumpers I hate?" His forehead was in his lovers shoulder as he looked down at the button-up. John's back was leaning against a wall, his eyes closed, "Because you hate them, moron." His words tripped up Sherlock and he broke, taking a firm hold of the shirt and pulling hard, popping the buttons off in five loud clicks, grinning like a maniac. He took John's lips hostage once more before he could do any more than make a dissapproving noise.

They kissed much like those wierd black fish in tanks suction themselves to the fishtanks' glass wall. It's been far too long since they've had a good time to do this, to do each other. And Sherlock was overly eager, squeezing his hand past John's tight waistband on his trousers, into the tight confines between fabric and dick. John threw his arms around the other's neck, crossing them and gripping the shirt on Sherlock's back, holding in handfulls.

"Mm, eh, Sherlock... How about we- oh. We move this to the bedroom and do it properly." He nuzzled his head in Sherlock hair after breaking away from his tongue and mouth. The hand being pressed very close to his cock slips a thumb around and Sherlock laughs a little too deep. "I thought I owed you one on the kitchen table?" He was progressively kneeling lower and lower, mouth slurping down his chest as knees neared the ground. John sneered, dragging a hand and pulling at Sherlock's hair, "There's no kitchen table where you're heading." The knees hit the ground with a small thump coincidentally as the flat's door opens wide.

"I'm a little early, but I brought back-" Bella just looked, head turned away slightly, eyes just looking past her new dads. "-Leftovers, thought you'd like them." She squinted for all of two seconds before going and throwing the styrofoam box in the fridge next to the bag of ears. Meanwhile John and Sherlock still looked caught and stared back. John's hand entwined with Sherlock's hair. Sherlock's hand halfway in John's trousers. John's trousers tented, only barely covered by Sherlock's body. They were exposed. And Anna wasn't leaving. She leaned against the kitchen table as she texted on her phone, her belly peeking out her jacket.

"Sst. Darling?" Sherlock struggled with returning normalcy, moving only to remove his hand. Anna looked up, "Hm?" John blew a breath, "Could you give us ten minutes privacy?" Mostly because there was no way they could sneak by her without giving her a better exclusive peek at private territory. "Getting wound up are we?" She snickered, grabbing her bag and skipped up to her room. Sherlock sighed. Letting his head fall from relief on John's front.

"I 'was' wound up." He wasn't thrilled. John tilted the man's head up, "Come on, to our room and I'll wind you up and set you off like a toy mouse." The metaphor didn't go down on Sherlock's list, but it did give him a good laugh. He stood, looping his fingertips in John's belt loops. "Lets just hope sound doesn't carry."

. . .

It was John's day to check on Andrew with Anna. She would never go alone, and nobody pushed her to, he wasn't in good shape. Sherlock usually let her go in while he waited outside, but John went in first, this past week they've said the cancer's been acting up. And since Annabella doesn't know it's anything more than being sick, it hurts John more.

"Hey Kiddo." He whispered to Andrew who was nine tenths asleep or drugged. His eyes were mostly closed, but the sliver of color seen noticably rolled forward, trying to see. John was counting time before he had another episode and quickly got Anna before she had to see it. She walked in slow, the room was dark, but something in Andrew's drugged smile brought light to himself and her. It even made John smile.

"Andrew. It's Annabella, remember me?" She sat at his bedside, taking his hooked up arm into her hand and stroked it softly. She looked much older like this. Caring for someone, pregnant, acting like a mother. John remembers her in diapers, before his army days, when she'd waddle across the carpet and fall at least four times. Sherlock never got to see her that way. That was also very sad.

Andrew made vowel sounds, he heard her, he was smiling. It was wierd for Anna and John and even Sherlock sometimes to see such a tall and strong man be so ill, to watch his muscles erode away, to see knots form all over his body, to have to make sure he is covered up nicely before Anna sees the worst of him. That may just be his sunken face. "I hear you..." She laughed sadly, "I'm here. Don't worry. Just listen to me."

She went on, letting her voice lull him to more smiles, tears. Anna talked of those nights they'd drive out to a nice patch of greenery and stargaze, how in less than a year she fell in love, how she wished he knew him longer, how she knew he'd be safer once he just let go. Did she know? That he was on death's bed? It was obvious. Wasn't it?

John slipped out quietly, giving them privacy, letting that swell in his throat die down so he could be strong for her. Andrew was a nice guy. Anna wasn't ready to have a child. Not one without a father. Not now, not yet.

. . .

It was a phone call from Sherlock. John and Bell were making fun of movies when things got serious. "Just, get a cab up here and wait in the waiting area. Bring me some fresh clothes and shoes, and set them in the men's restroom, I need to get to them so Anna doesn't see."

Anna was still giggling when John held back a cry, he told her to call a cab while he gathered some things.

Sherlock shucked his black trench off once he got into the restroom. He popped his purple button-up off, tearing it slightly as he threw it in a bin. He turned all the faucets on, hot water spraying as he paced back and forth, eyeing himself as he passed the mirrors. Blood. Everywhere.

John came in minutes later, handing the bag to his boyfriend before assessing the damage. He wonders how many other walked in here just to turn back around. The trench was soaked in deep red blood, the pants Sherlock began working off were too, blood and vomit. Sherlock stripped, telling John to clean up the mess while he dressed. When John finished wiping away what he could, Sherlock ordered him away. He braced himself at a sink and began scrubbing and scalding away at the stained red on his arms, fingernails, hair, neck...

John went to Anna, a hand to her hair, "Stay here while I go check on him, will you?" Anna began squirming, "No, I need to see him. I have to." John shook his head, hand to her shoulder now, "Annabella, you need to stay here. Please, he's fine, just sit and we'll get you." Anna didn't want to, but she nodded, looking off in the distance.

John was pacing to his room just as Sherlock exited the bathroom, cleaner, not as bloody. "He needed someone with him. When I came in- he, He just gave out. He was waiting for one of us to come in, he held on until he just couldn't anymore." Apologizing? Explaining? For a cancer patient who was dying, you don't need to. "Sh. I know, it's nothing you could help. Lets see if they've cleaned him up." Did they? Nobody knows.

Not until they arrived at his room, door open, nurses walking in and around and out. The cooling, paling face of Andrew, the same boy Sherlock greeted with a smile an hour before, laid motionless on a coverless bed. But the room was how it was when Sherlock left. And Sherlock remembered. He remembers the chair he sat at when Andrew threw himself at him, sloppily falling from the high hospital bed begin caught. The puddle of red on the ground where Andrew bellowed out mouthfuls of clotted blood. The streak of the mix where Sherlock pulled him to a more comfortable place. The handprints in the color where Andrew tried crawling. The footprint in urine where Sherlock finally had to settle and embrace Andrew. Where Andrew puked over and over on Sherlock, noiselessly apologizing. He remembers the nurse at the door waiting, because god knows she knew, she knew what was going on. Then there was the one good thing.

The minutes Andrew was giving up, letting go, tired of trying and fighting. When Sherlock cradled the boy in his arms as an infant. Andrew's smile. That charming childish smile that came after a good joke, a toast, before you did something stupid. It drew in so many people, it drew in Anna, John, even Sherlock. Andrew lay there, leaned back in Sherlock's arms as he laughs hard through the last bit of blood bubbling up, out of his mouth.

Anna was beside them. The father's didn't hear, see, notice her. How did she follow them? "Tell me that's not his." Eyes locked on the bloody scene. "Just tell me he's okay. Tell me that isn't him on that bed." John had little time to catch her when her fragile legs gave in. Her tears built up enough, streaming down, words coming in mumbled. Sherlock spoke to a nurse, cursed her for not cleaning the scene sooner, swore he'd have the person's head who didn't wheel Andrew to another room. Livid. Fucking livid and roaring and scary mad. Almost psycotic. His yelling made Anna cry harder, made John's hands close tighter around her, made it harder for him to keep calm, to be strong. All over the unmoving object spread out, untouched in the hospitals room.

Andrew, the father of Annabella's child, has passed away.

. . .

"One week left." Sherlock cheered, touching Bell's belly as he walked past. Everyone broke out into an inevitable grin. And Anna couldn't help but wonder if the baby would have his father's eyes, nose, stubby fingers. Her abdomen was swollen, very much so, and rounder than ever. But it was beyond beauty, she held that motherly glow most women wished they had.

Their grin died down, and Anna folded the laundry by the window. Minutes passed when she tilted her head, hearing a car's door slam. "John." Her voice was quick and scared. John looked up, scared as well, "What is it?" He stood. Sherlock was already ahead of the game, at the door, waiting for the knock. Anna threw the laundry down. "It's mom."

It was. And she looked fit as a fiddle. Her voice was strung with hate, of ignorance and already Sherlock didn't care for her. But their disliking grew as she stated her coming. "Anna will be moving with me." John swore, "Fucking you?! No."

"You can't say no. I have a right to her. She's seventeen and still my daughter. She's leaving tonight at eight where I hope she'll have her stuff packed." The devil woman's clothes were pricey, and she played with one of her many rings as she spoke. Sherlock couldn't even utter a word to her, he was doing everything he could from slamming her ass in the door. But the look in her eyes, she knew what she was doing. He's already heard Anna's rebuttle of, "You leave me for well over a year? You never call? And you expect me to go with you? No. I refuse. I'm pregnant, I can't travel, and you will have to knock me out before driving me home."

Sherlock put a hand on John's arm, putting his hand up and bracing Anna in his other arm. "We could go to jail for keeping you here, she could do things to us. Anna, she has money, she can give you better opportunities which I'm sure I'll make her give to you. And she's your mother. We're just an Uncle and detective who took you in. I really don't want to fucking say this sweetheart, but it's only for one year." He whispered in her ear.

Yes, one year. But once she's there, she'll have no money to get back to the dads. John knew this, Anna and Anna's mom knew this, Sherlock knew this. But what could they do? The papers weren't under their names. The law was on the wrong side. Anna looked down, nodding, shaking her head, she's given up.

. . .

Her mom was coming back in ten minutes, and all of Anna's stuff was sitting in the living room. The three didn't talk at all while packing. Only when they all laid back on the couch one last time as a family, tired and worn did Anna say, "I'm gonna fucking miss you guys." John put his hand on her leg, he choked on words, "I'm -onna miss you more." She leaned into him. "Remember to tell us what your having and what you name the baby." Sherlock catches her attention, holding her hand. She grins, "You kidding? I'm going to have you on videochat twenty-four seven!" Her voice cracks.

Silence.

"I really don't want to go. Without you guys to help me, without you..." Bella fixes a sad smile at them. John smiles too, "I know, darling, I know. I feel the same. Without you here to keep us sane, Sherlock and I would have probably run our relationship into the ruts." The father's exchange a look, and Sherlock is crying. Crying crying. Real tears and not the ones he's taught himself to let out. His cheeks are red and his hands shake in hers.

Anna nods, "If it's a boy, he's going to be Hamish Holmes Smith. If it's a girl, I was thinking about Harriet Holmes Smith." The dads laugh at her simplicity of 'Holmes' used as a middle name, but they love the names. "And who ever he or she is, they will be your grandchild. I assure you. I promise." She looks at them, long, to make sure they understood. Then she smiles. And they embrace her in the middle of a hug that seems to never end.

Until the door knocks.


End file.
